


Have a Drink on Me

by CitrusVanille



Category: McFly
Genre: Dancing, Drinking, Drinking Games, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2019-03-24 06:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13805289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: Tom is drunk. Not horribly so, he thinks, but the night is young.





	Have a Drink on Me

Tom is drunk. Not horribly so, he thinks, but the night is young. The bartender is already lining up another round of shots – Wild Turkey this time. Tom sips at his and makes a face.

“It’s disgusting,” he tells Dougie, because it’s Dougie’s fault he’s drinking it to begin with. It was Dougie’s turn to pick something, and he thought ‘Wild Turkey’ sounded funny.

“No one’s making you drink it, Fletcher,” Harry points out from Tom’s other side, and Tom almost slides off his barstool when he swivels to look at him.

“Yes, but,” Tom starts, and can’t think of anything else to say to that.

“Or you could just knock it back like a normal human being and not really have to taste it at all.” Harry demonstrates and plunks his empty glass back on the counter.

“Right.” Tom purses his lips for a moment, contemplating the whiskey, then puts the glass to his lips, tilts his head back, and downs it. It burns going down almost worse than anything else he’s had so far, and he gasps and coughs.

Harry smirks at him, and he can hear Dougie giggling behind him. Dougie must be even more drunk than Tom is – he hasn’t giggled like that in a long time.

“Your turn, Danny!” Dougie calls down the bar once he’s gotten himself under control. Harry turns around in his seat to look at their fourth companion and Tom tries to sit up a bit straighter so he can see Danny over Harry’s shoulder. It doesn’t work very well.

A glance at the bartender confirms that he is completely nonplussed by the entire situation – and the four minor celebrities who are getting more and more water-logged by the second – and merely trying to do his job.

“I want a slow comfortable screw up against the wall,” Danny announces. Dougie bursts into giggles again, and even Harry’s laughing. It takes a long moment – and the response of the bartender – for Tom to figure out that Danny was ordering a drink.

“What the hell?” he asks, then, seeing the concoction the bartender is brewing, “Danny, what the _fucking hell_?”

Even Harry looks disgusted once he realizes what’s going in. “That looks vile, Dan,” he says, and looks like only his upbringing is keeping him from gagging at the sight of it.

“I’ve always wanted to order it,” Danny admits, voice loud enough to be heard without any difficulty at all, even over the blaring music.

“Just because you like being able to say it doesn’t mean the rest of us want to drink it,” Tom yells.

There’s the press of a chin against Tom’s shoulder a split second before Dougie’s voice says in his ear, “Can I just order a beer? I don’t want that.”

Tom automatically turns to look at Dougie, and his nose bangs into the side of Dougie’s face. Tom smells alcohol, sweat, and something else that might be the last traces of Dougie’s shampoo or soap. “If I’m drinking it, you’re drinking it,” he says, and he can feel his own breath as it washes over Dougie’s cheek.

“Mean,” Dougie grumbles, and digs his chin harder into Tom’s shoulder in retaliation. His chin seems sharper than usual, somehow. Maybe it’s the alcohol.

“Ow,” says Tom. “If you stop trying to drill a hole through my shoulder I’ll buy you a beer after.”

“Really?” Dougie lifts his head slightly, and Tom relaxes.

“Really,” he promises.

“Yay,” says Dougie, and kisses his cheek before pulling back and sitting up straight again – more or less – on his own stool.

+

“Dance with me,” Dougie says, swaying only a little as he tries to pull Tom to his feet.

“I don’t –” Tom tries, because he doesn’t dance, not in public, but Dougie’s insistent.

“I want to dance,” he says, tugs harder on Tom’s wrist until Tom has to slip off his stool or lose an arm. Not that Dougie could really pull his arm off, but things are spinning just a little and it certainly _feels_ like Dougie could at least dislocate something. “Come on.”

Tom looks around for rescue, but Harry is already out on the dance floor, barely visible, wrapped around some girl. Danny has vanished completely. “Can’t you just –”

“I don’t want to dance alone,” Dougie says, and that’s not what Tom was going to suggest, but. “Tom,” it’s not quite a whine, but it’s close, drawn out just a little too long. “Dance with me dance with me dance with me.”

Tom huffs, but stops digging his heels in, lets Dougie drag him into the press of bodies.

Dougie moves easily with the beat, drunk enough to be loose and comfortable in his own skin. Tom shuffles a bit, doesn’t think any amount of alcohol could help him move the way the people around them do, the way Dougie does. Dougie laughs at him, the sound half swallowed by the music, but Tom knows it well enough to hear it anyway, knows the happy crinkle of Dougie’s eyes and the way his nose wrinkles just a bit. He barely manages to stop himself from reaching out to touch Dougie’s smiling mouth, and, okay, maybe he’s a little drunker than he’d realized.

Dougie leans in close, and for a split second, Tom thinks he’s going to kiss him, but no, of course not, he just yells, “Relax! Have fun!” into Tom’s ear, and pulls back.

Tom tries to frown at him, because it’s not that simple, but Dougie’s still grinning at him, and Tom can’t make his own face do anything but grin back.

“Like this,” Dougie says, loud enough to be heard, and curves his palms over Tom’s hips, using just enough pressure to pull Tom a little closer and synch their rhythm.

It’s – not bad, Tom thinks, after several long moments. With Dougie guiding him, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing, can just relax into the motion, into the bassline he can feel vibrating through the floor and up his legs, making even his bones shiver. He can feel the heat of Dougie’s hands through the denim of his jeans, imagines he can feel him even where they’re not connected, they’re so close. Dougie’s breath washes hot over Tom’s throat, the underside of his jaw.

Tom’s not sure how much time passes, head light and a little fuzzy as they sway with the press of bodies on the dancefloor, the beat of one song melting seamlessly into the beat of another, impossible to tell the difference. At one point, Tom realizes they’ve moved closer together, Tom’s hands resting on Dougie’s shoulders, their chests almost brushing as they move.

The music shifts – at least, Tom thinks it does, it’s not much of a shift, and he’s a little slow processing right now – and Dougie steps away, hands dropping to his sides. Tom feels almost cold, suddenly, even in the hot press of the club. “I’m going for another drink,” Dougie shouts over the music, mimes raising a bottle to his mouth to illustrate. “Don’t you dare even think about moving,” he adds, even louder, and disappears in the direction on the bar.

It feels like forever before he comes back, and Tom has regressed to awkward shuffling, though he’s sort of awkwardly shuffling with a small blonde who has somehow worked her way into his personal space.

“Brought you a present,” Dougie says from behind Tom, making him jump a little. Dougie laughs in his ear, hooking his chin over Tom’s shoulder. He wraps one arm around Tom’s waist, which pushes the blonde girl back a little, and hands Tom one of the beer bottles he’s holding in his other hand.

Tom leans back gratefully as the girl pulls away with a bit of a frown, and barely notices that he’s already started swaying in time with Dougie. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nah, I got it,” Dougie says, waving him off with the hand still holding his own beer.

They’re pressed closer together like this, and it’s a bit odd, dancing this way, Dougie warm against Tom’s back, arm still around his waist. Odd, but nice, too. Tom doesn’t think about it, just sips at his beer and lets himself drift along with Dougie guiding his movements.

At some point – Tom doesn’t think it’s been that long, but his bottle is empty, and he’s pretty sure he wasn’t drinking that fast – Dougie twists so they’re face to face again, closer than before. Tom shivers a little at the feel of Dougie’s body moving against his. This is really not the time or the place, he tells himself, and wonders when he draped his arms over Dougie’s shoulders, when the fingers of the hand not still holding his empty beer bottle had crept down under the collar of Dougie’s shirt.

Dougie cocks his head a bit to one side, tilting just enough so he’s looking Tom full in the face. “It isn’t?” he asks, and his voice is low, too soft under the music for Tom to have heard him if he were any farther away.

“Isn’t what?” Tom asks. He’s a little distracted by the feel of Dougie’s skin under his fingertips, soft and just a little bit sweaty.

“The time or place,” Dougie says, and, shit, Tom hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud.

“I don’t.” Tom stops. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even know what to say, if Dougie’s even noticed. Only.

“It could be.”

“What?”

“If you want it to be,” Dougie clarifies, which isn’t really clarifying at all.

“I don’t,” Tom says again. “What?”

“Or we could go somewhere that is,” Dougie suggests. He pushes in a little closer until they’re lined up shoulder to knee. And. Oh. _Oh_. He means.

“Oh.” Tom can feel his eyes get wider, and he’s pretty sure the alcohol isn’t to blame for the way his head suddenly goes light and his whole body heats up, but he’s pretty sure it’s not helping matters. “I don’t. What?” He wishes he could say something else.

Dougie’s hands curl a little more tightly against Tom’s hips – Tom wonders for half a second where his beer bottle went – and he pulls Tom even closer, tilts his head so his lips move against Tom’s jaw when he speaks. “I’m trying to seduce you,” he says, voice just the tiniest bit rough. “Work with me, Fletcher.”

Which. Yeah. Okay. All right. Tom can do that. He drops his forehead against Dougie’s, curls his fingers around the back of Dougie’s neck, catching in a few stray strands of hair. “Fuck,” he says, because it seems like the best thing to go with right now. “Yes.”

Dougie’s face breaks into a wide grin. This close Tom can see the way his eyes crinkle, even in the semi-dark of the club. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, voice not slurred, but a little funny, like he’s trying to quote something in an accent and not quite managing it.

Tom laughs anyway, the sound a little breathless, and then Dougie’s tugging him back through the crowds towards the exit, through the doors, and out onto the pavement. He digs in his pocket for his phone with one hand, flagging a taxi with the other, and Tom’s still laughing, can’t help it, hopes he doesn’t sound too hysterical, but he has no idea what the hell is going on, but fuck it feels good for it to finally be _something_.

They slide into the back of the cab, and Tom gives the driver directions, because Dougie’s too busy tapping something out on his keypad. Then he snaps the phone shut, shoves it back in his pocket, and looks up at Tom with some cross between excitement and obvious nerves on his face.

It takes Tom a minute to unstuck his throat, because, yeah. He’s pretty sure they found the edge and are about to go into freefall. He swallows twice, just to be sure he’ll be able to speak, and asks, “Who were you texting?” because it seems like the safest thing to say right now.

“Harry,” Dougie’s voice sounds a lot like how Tom feels. “Told him we left. He’ll tell Dan.”

Tom swallows again. “Right.”

And then they just sort of stare at each other. It might be two seconds, might be two hours, until the taxi’s pulling up outside of Tom’s house. They both stumble out, Dougie hastily shoving a handful of bills into the cabbie’s hand, waving off the change, and following Tom up the walk and into Tom’s house instead of walking the half dozen steps in the other direction to his own flat. Which, well, Tom knew he would do that, knew in his head when they left the club that this is what was going to happen, but when Dougie shuts the door behind them and bolts it, Tom’s still having a little trouble processing.

“You’re panicking,” Dougie says. He sounds maybe like he might be on the edge of it, himself.

“No,” Tom insists, and he’s not, he’s really not. It’s likely a close call, though. It’s probably good he’s still pretty drunk, or it might be more than a close call. Then again, if they both weren’t still pretty drunk, they probably wouldn’t be here, like this, standing alone together in the too-brightly lit front hallway of Tom’s house, not knowing what to do.

Dougie huffs a laugh, tense and high, and Tom can see the color in his cheeks. “Fuck this,” Dougie says abruptly. And Tom doesn’t have a chance to ask “Fuck what?” before Dougie’s pulling him in with a hand fisted in the front of his shirt, backing himself against the door, and pressing their mouths together.

It’s awkward for a moment, noses bumping, teeth clicking, and then they both shift a little, and, yeah, that’s a hell of a lot better. Dougie tastes like beer and, more faintly, something harder, whiskey, maybe, or vodka. Tom’s pretty sure he tastes the same.

Tom crowds in a little closer, pushing Dougie a little harder against the door, cupping his face in his hands and tilting his chin just a bit more. And Dougie just melts against him, fingers pressed to Tom’s chest over his shirt, moving just a little like he’s caressing the fabric.

The kiss softens, goes gentle. It’s no less intense, but somehow, suddenly, it’s less urgent, like this is what they’ve been building up to, and now it’s here, and they don’t need to race anymore.

They separate eventually to breathe, foreheads pressed together, sharing air. Tom lets his eyes drift open, wonders vaguely when he closed them, though it doesn’t really matter, at this point, if it ever did.

“Been trying not to think about that all night,” he says, not even thinking about it beforehand, but it’s true. Mostly true, anyway.

“Been trying not to think about it a hell of a lot longer than that,” Dougie mumbles back. Tom can smell the alcohol on Dougie’s breath, thinks he can smell it on his own as well. Thinks this probably wouldn’t be happening otherwise, so he probably owes Danny one for coming up with the stupid drinking game and dragging them all into it.

“Same,” he whispers, and that’s true, too, even more than just tonight. “Been trying not to think about it for forever.” He doesn’t know why he’s whispering, but it seems right, even when it’s just the two of them in the bright homey lights of his house.

“No more not thinking about it,” Dougie says, half sing-song, half laugh, brushes his lips over Tom’s, and Tom can feel them both shiver.

“No thinking at all,” Tom decides, feels his mouth curl up into a grin, sees Dougie’s lips do the same, and, yeah, this feels right. He presses his smile to Dougie’s, and that. That feels even better.


End file.
